


And You'd Be Left In The Dust (Unless I Stuck By Ya)

by TheSquigglySquid



Series: I'll Show You Who I Am Without This Suit (It Isn't Nothing) [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Parent Tony Stark, Team Building, au where miles and peter are the same age in the same universe, superhero training, takes place after the ferry incident but before the homecoming dance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-05-20 12:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19376407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSquigglySquid/pseuds/TheSquigglySquid
Summary: "....I could train you. Show you the ropes?"Granted, Peter hasn't been Spider-Man for very long. He's barley grasping the ropes for himself.But Miles Morales isn't just some kid from Brooklyn—he's like Peter.Mr. Stark might have taken away the suit, but Peter is still Spider-Man. And now? Now Miles can be, too.(In which Miles Morales and Peter Parker are the same age in the same universe when Miles gets bitten by a radioactive spider, but they don’t tell Mr. Stark because he took Peter’s suit away and most definitely won’t approve of Peter not only risking his life to resume superhero activities, but teachinganotherteenager how to do the same thing.)





	1. You're Like Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miles needs help. _Professional_ help.  
> And there’s only one professional in New York—in the _world_ —that knows what to do.  
> Miles needs to find the Spider-Man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some bad language, not a lot but it's there

 

**_Brooklyn_ **

****

Miles is having an _off_ _week_ , okay?

To start, he absolutely _hates_ the fancy rich school with insanely brilliant intellectual _wizards_ for students and Mrs.  _Great_ _Expectations_ and her—well, great expectations. He hates having to live there for five days a week, he hates being away from his parents, he hates being _different._

He misses his _friends._ He misses his _people._ The kids that speak his language and treat him like he’s a normal kid who belongs among them, and don’t look at him like they’re just waiting for him to slip up and prove them right—prove that he's just another kid from Brooklyn who got lucky.

And he _is_ slipping.

It's why he went to go see Uncle Aaron.

It's why he spray painted that wall in the subway.

It's _why_ he got into the situation he’s in _now_.

At first he thinks he’s coming down with something, right?

He feels all.... _off._  He feels ravenous, he feels like he’ll never want to eat _again_ , he feels jittery, he feels drowsy, he feels dizzy and yet at the same time like _nothing_ can catch him off balance.

And then he’s walking on the side of a building like a _maniac_ , and all he can think aside from the general panic is: _'Like the Spider-Man from YouTube.'_

So Miles goes back to the subway to be certain, the one he painted with Uncle Aaron.

Sure enough, there in front of his silhouette is the spider, right where he'd discarded it like nothing—just like he had  _thousands_ of spiders before.

But somehow, this one is _different._

Here's never seen a spider quite like it, and he wonders how he hadn't noticed before.

Is this what had happened to the _other_ Spider-Man? Bitten by a funky little spider one day and the next thing he knows he's got _superpowers?_

Will Miles start shooting out webs, too?

He holds his hand in an imitation of Spider-Man’s, but nothing comes out.

Huh. Maybe it’ll take a few days for the web juice to come in.

Oh god. Oh _god._ How can he even _think_ that, like it’s normal? Like this is _fine?_ This isn’t some kind of—of— _spider puberty_. This is a _mutation._ People get put on the X-Men for this. People join the _Avengers_ for this. 

 **People get murdered because of this.** And he can’t even—can’t even _control_ it. How is he going to protect himself? How is he going to protect his identity? Protect his _parents??_

Miles needs help. _Professional _help.

And there’s only one professional in New York—in the _world—_ that knows what to do.

Miles needs to find the Spider-Man.

 

**_Queens_ **

 

Miles doesn’t know _what_ he expected.

The decision to go looking for Spider-Man was (albeit somewhat impulsive) easy enough to make, and once it was made, his path had become pretty clear.

He leaves the creepy hidden alcove in the subway and finds his way back to the station, melting into the crowd and making his way onto the Queens–bound train. If he takes this one for about twenty stops or so, he should be pretty well into Queens.

Everyone knows that Spider-Man operates in Queens just like everyone knows the Yankees are better than the Mets.

If Miles is gonna find Spider-Man, then _that's_ where he needs to look.

And then he’s no longer on the metro _or_ in the subway station—he’s made his way back above ground, blinking to adjust to the light and looking around as if expecting Spider-Man to just conveniently swing by.

 _Wait a second. Queens is_ **_massive._**  Miles is hit with the sudden realization and instantly feels like a complete idiot. Spider-Man could be _anywhere._

 _Great going, Miles,_ Miles mentally berates himself. _You’re officially stupid._

What Miles needs are _connections_. If he had connections, he could just call in a favor to an old associate nearby, catch up on old times, and get the info he needs. Or maybe what he really needs is to stop watching so much TV.

But—needing to start _somewhere_ , Miles picks a direction and starts walking.

He’s always been a people person, exchanging greetings and handshakes with people he’s never met before like they’re pals. So, rather than just amble along like some kind of bumbling tourist, he just asks around. He talks to a _lot_ of people, asking if any of them have spotted Spider-Man or know where to find him.

Most of them haven’t, though. Not today, anyways.

“Don't worry 'bout it, kid. He’s around,” they assure him. “You’ll definitely see ‘im if you keep looking. He’s always out and about somewheres, this time o’ day.”

So he keeps walking. Street after street, building after building. He keeps his eyes up, looking around for a flash of red-and-blue. What Miles _really_ wishes is that he had a _dirt bike._ They're illegal, of course, because kids use them to skirt around traffic and cut through alleys, and the cops can't catch them because they can't chase them in the cruisers, and Miles' dad _is_ a cop _,_ so of course he'd _never_ be allowed to get one—but. Man. _What he wouldn't do for a dirt bike right about now._

When there's just miles and miles of residential buildings and not really that much traffic, and no one's really _out_ at this time of day because it's school season and whatever tourists are coming to visit the city _certainly_ aren't going to be in _Queens._

There's a bar at the corner of the street across from a bank that has clearly been recently robbed. The sandwich shop at it's opposite corner seems to have been blown up, as well.

"I'll bet anything.…" Miles trails off, looking at the two buildings. "I'll bet anything Spider-Man can't be too far."

“Oh, ya lookin’ fah Spider-Man?” Chuckles a man outside the decrepit little bar.

"Sure am. I'm Miles," he adds, clapping the man's hand and shaking it once.

"Delmar. That's my shop," he nods at the smoking building. "Best sandwiches in Queens, til we got blown up."

Miles figures it's best not to argue.

"What happened?"

"Bank robbers got their hands on some Chitauri weapons, Spider-Man stepped in, my place got caught in the crossfire. He saved my life, though. And my cat. You a fan?”

“Yeah,” Miles says simply, partly because he really _is_ a fan, even if that’s not why he’s looking for him. "Sorry about your place. That's crazy."

"Yeah it is. Though, I think he mighta got a little in over 'is head, tryin' ta catch the guys sellin' the alien tech."

"Whattaya mean?"

“Check da TV, kid,” Delmar jerks his head at the bar inside, where a TV broadcasts the news.

Miles steps into the old place and walks up to the TV slowly, squinting at the headline. At first he's not quite able to comprehend what’s happening.

The Staten Island Ferry just got attacked by Chitauri weapons dealers, and Spider-Man is on board. There he is, fighting a guy in giant metal wings, and _then._

Then the boat _splits_ _in_ ** _half_** _._

Miles sort of freaks out after that.

First of all, the Staten Island Ferry just cracked in two, but _second,_ he’s been sniffing around for Spider-Man for _hours_ in the _wrong fucking borough._ He is reasonably upset.

"Thanks Mr. Delmar!" Miles calls, jogging out of the bar and taking off.

 _Unbelievable._ Miles is upset. But also a little frightened.

What if Spider-Man _dies?_ How _awful_ would that be?

He pulls out his phone and pulls up the story on his news app, where it's casting live feed.

Staten Island, huh? He can't go all the way out _there._

But should he—y'know- try to _save him?_ He's only had these freak powers for like—six hours. But—if he can lift a _bus_ (theoretically) _,_ then _surely_ he can help out a fellow spider?

Miles allows himself to wallow in panic as he sprints back towards the nearest station, boarding the Manhattan–bound local.

Then, as he watches the news on his phone, _Iron Man_ zips out of the sky like a comet.

Miles' eyes pop as the Avenger pushes the pieces of the boat back together and welds the crack.

Much to his frustration, the news cameras seem to lose track of Spider-Man after that, focusing on Iron Man and the safety of the people on board. There's a brief clip of the Avenger irritably picking Spider-Man up by the scruff of his suit and dropping him off on land before he flies back to the boat and helps with the cleanup, making sure everyone gets off and speaking very briefly with the police.

Then, the people on the boat start giving interviews to the camera and Iron Man's activities are put on the back burner.

"If Spider-Man hadn't been there, I would be dead right now. I can't swim," one woman says to the camera, clearly shaken.

"I mean, we have no protocol for what just happened, _maybe_ we could have gotten some emergency help out here in time but I think there's a very real possibility that most of the people on this boat would have died here if not for Spider-Man and Iron Man," one of the crew states firmly.

"What would've happened was, the suction from the sinking halves of the boat would have pulled us down and drowned every single one of us. I mean you're looking at about three thousand people dying," the captain says briefly. "Spider-Man was able to prevent that until Iron Man could get here and fix the Ferry. Thanks to those superheroes, countless lives were saved here today."

The reporter turns back to the camera.

"The ship's captain's remarks following the disaster just now in the New York City Bay leave no doubt that thousands owe their lives to heroes Spider-Man and Iron Man after their quick action to save the Staten Island Ferry from splitting in half after illegal alien tech on board backfired during a weapons deal gone wrong. New intel from the scene has revealed that the _FBI_ were aware of this case and were on board, intending to catch the weapons dealers while on board. This begs the question; what _really_ caused the deadly backfire that lead to the endangerment of thousands? More on this later."

The reporter's screen shrinks into the corner to make way for two more reporters sitting at a desk in a news station, the footage from the helicopters displayed behind them.

"Well Cheryl I think the most incredible part of this story was Spider-Man's work to save the ship, let's look at the footage," the male reporter says.

Grainy cell phone footage from a tourists' camera shows the explosion, and then there's Spider-Man, looking around frantically, analytically, before he jumps into action—flipping from support to support and calling out commands and shooting webs. It's _awesome,_ and Miles finds his jaw dropping at how _fast_ and _agile_ he is.

For a moment, it seems like the webs will hold, and the passengers will be okay until emergency arrives.

And then they start _snapping._

By now, the helicopters have arrived and the footage switches to the news feed in time to catch Spider-Man grasping the snapped webs on each half of the boat.

They pull taut, held together by _nothing but Spider-Man's own strength._

He screams with the strain, but his sheer determination wins out and he doesn't let go, hanging limply between the weight of what must be _thousands of_ **_tons._**

Miles distantly hears the station announced and from the overhead, pulling his attention away from the news story on his phone. He recognizes the stop as the one he had planned on getting off of, gets to his feet, and hurries off the train with a renewed sense of urgency.

 _What if Iron Man hadn't been there?_ He wonders. He doesn't doubt that Spider-Man would've held on, no matter the cost to his own well-being, until everyone was safe.

Miles wonders if _he'll_ be able to do that, should the time come. Does he even have what it _takes_ to be a hero? Doubt flickers in his belly, and he hopes he isn't making some sort of monumental mistake.

 

**_Manhattan_ **

 

When he gets off the subway, every hair on his arm raises. His head snaps up, searching for danger, but there is none.

Just a crowd of disgruntled New Yorkers minding their business, save for the harassment of the occasional homeless person or solicitor wielding pamphlets.

But he finds himself skimming over the crowd, searching. Like a compass righting itself, his eyes swing toward a kid about his age and stay.

His skin tingles, there’s a tug in his gut, and something in him _snaps_ like a rubber band. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he _knows,_ with _absolute certainty,_ that this kid is Spider-Man.

The teenager is staring back at Miles too, eyes wide—a reflection of Miles’ own face.

“You’re like me,” the other boy says then, sounding equally certain, like he feels it, too.

Miles knows he’s right, he can feel the connection. “You’re like me,” he agrees, and he can’t quite believe it, it’s so bizarre.

Spider-Man isn’t a man at all, he’s a _kid._

“Where did you come from?” Spider-Man asks.

“Brooklyn.”

The kid chuckles, amused.

“Queens.”

“I know,” Miles says. “I was looking for you. I think you can help me.”

“Of course,” Spider-Man says, without hesitation, without even blinking. “Of course I’ll help you. I could train you….show you the ropes?”

Relief washes over Miles in that moment and he grins, feeling light and giddy.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I’m Miles,” he adds, holds out his hand for the boy to shake.

“Peter,” he returns, taking it.

Their hands stick, and Miles flushes.

“Uh, did I mention I needed help?” He huffs, embarrassed.

Peter laughs.

“Don’t worry about it, man, I remember those days. I accidentally ripped my door off.”

Miles laughs, a little less humiliated.

“You just have to relax, it’s okay. Deep breath, and then just let go,” Peter instructs.

Miles breathes deep and lets go, one finger at a time. Peter’s hand drops back to his side.

“Nice,” he grins. "It worked!"

“'Course it did. Just think about sticking as like your cat claws. Cats can control their claws, right, but when they’re freaked out, they just come out naturally—it’s a defense mechanism. It’s all about focusing on controlling it. Don’t let your claws out.”

“Huh. Doesn’t seem too difficult.”

“You’ll get the hang of it in no time,” Peter assures.

The subway starts pulling out of the station.

“Crap!” Peter yelps.

“Oh shoot, sorry man—”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s fine—just grab on!” Peter orders, running with the train.

“Grab on _what?_ ” Miles shrieks.

“On the _train!_ ” Peter jumps, latching on to the back of the last car and sticking.

“You expect _me_ to—”

“Jump, jump, _jump!”_ Peter demands.

Miles does.

Reaches out, getting a hand on the smooth surface of the train.

He sticks.

“You did it!” Peter cheers, crouched on the back of a moving train like he belongs there. “I knew you could.”

Miles sticks himself more firmly against the smooth metal, not quite ready to speak yet. He still feels like he might fall off, and his pounding heart hasn’t quite assured him that he hadn’t just died back in the station.

“You’re _crazy,_ ” Miles finally gets out.

Peter laughs, the sound almost lost to the thundering of the wheels.

“I can’t believe this,” he says, giddy. “This is _so cool_. We _share powers.”_

“Yeah, about that,” Miles grimaces. “When do I start shooting webs? Is that gonna be spontaneous, too? Or am I gonna be able to talk to my teachers _without_ spraying spiderwebs everywhere?”

Peter blinks at him for a second, and then bursts out laughing.

“What?” Miles complains, exasperated.

This, for whatever reason, makes Peter laugh even more.

“ _What!?”_ Miles borders on whining as Peter loses it at his expense.

“The webs don’t come _out_ of me,” Peter gasps when he’s finally calmed down enough to speak, wiping away a stray tear. “It’s a chemical mixture I invented to replicate the tensile strength of spider webs. I can make it for you,” he adds.

“Oh.” Miles feels a little stupid, now. “That….makes more sense.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Peter placates. “It wasn’t really fair for me to laugh at you like that, I’m sure that’s probably what most people think. It’s just, I’ve never really been able to _talk_ about this stuff, because it’s all so top secret. Only a few people know, and, well—” Peter cuts himself off abruptly, as if he’s just remembered something painful. “Never mind.”

“Is it about the Ferry?” Miles asks.

Peter looks up. “You heard about that?”

“Well, yeah. It was on the news. _Everyone_ heard. I was asking around Queens, trying to find anyone who might’ve seen you. A guy—Delmar—finally said you were on TV in  _another borough._ I was so freaked out, I hopped on the subway to—I don’t know. _Find_ you, I guess. And then, well, I _did_ , and now—the next thing I know I’m rail riding to who– _knows–_ where."

Peter smiles a little at that.

“Yeah, it, it was because of the Ferry,” Peter admits in a small voice.

Miles nods, waits for Peter to go on. So he does.

“When I started out, you know, I wasn’t doing anything crazy. I wanted to stay low to the ground, look out for my neighborhood, stick up for the little guy. I just wanted to _help_ people, you know? In whatever way I could. Usually, that meant something very simple. Groceries, bike thieves, giving directions. Occasionally, it meant stopping a bus with my bare hands.”

“I remember,” Miles says. “You went viral after that. People knew your name.”

Peter nods. “That’s right. That’s when Mr. Stark heard about me.”

Miles isn’t surprised. The media hadn’t had a tough time connecting the dots to _that_ puzzle. One week, Spider-Man is a guy in pajamas stopping car thieves and the next he’s in Germany facing off the Avengers in a multi-million dollar suit. The reason was clear. Iron Man was desperate, and Spider-Man was disposable. Still, Spider-Man had gone back to the neighborhood gig after that, displaying no further contact with the Avengers, and after a while the rumors died down. Whatever Iron Man had wanted with Spider-Man had been fulfilled in Germany.

To hear Peter all but confirm this, though, is different. Iron Man is supposed to be a hero, but he had treated Peter like nothing but a tool. And to find out that he's only a _kid_ on top of that? Miles won’t say he’s surprised, but he is certainly disappointed.

“Anyway, after we fought the Avengers, he said he was proud and that I did a good job, and it just felt so great to be a part of something bigger for once, you know? And he gave me this amazing suit, and it was like I was a real superhero, you know? Like _I_ could be somebody people looked up to. And it just—it just felt so good, and I thought, ‘this is what I wanna do for the rest of my life.’ I didn’t want it to end, but it did. Mr. Stark dropped me off at home, told me I could keep the suit, and I told him—that if he ever needed my help again, I would do it. And he said—he said he would call me.” Peter swallows, looking away bitterly. “He didn’t though—he didn’t call. I texted Happy—that’s his head of security—let him know I was available....I left him progress reports in his voicemail box, but….” Peter makes a slicing motion with his hand. “Nothing. Radio silence.”

Miles feels his gut sink with sympathy, imagining what it feels like to call and call, hoping they’ll answer but never hearing a word.

“Anyway, I figured that if I took on higher threats, took down bigger bad guys, I’d show him that I was ready for more. I wanted to prove myself. That got his attention, but not like how I planned. He basically told me to stay in my lane.”

Miles grits his teeth. The absolute disrespect. If somebody tried to treat _him_ like that—that’s hands on _sight_.

Peter seems too nice for that, though.

“Instead of listening, I went after those guys, tracked them to DC, and then to the Staten Island Ferry. When one of the weapons malfunctioned and cut the ship in half, I tried to save it by webbing the support beams to each other. I missed one, though, and they all snapped, until I was the last thing keeping the Ferry from falling apart.”

“Yeah, I saw,” Miles mutters, almost to himself. “I bet that shit hurted.”

Peter grins a little at that.

“It _did,_ but luckily I didn’t have to do it for long, because then Mr. Stark came to put the ship back together.” Peter sighs. “And then he dropped me off on a rooftop and told me to 'wait here,' while he went back to make sure everyone got off safely. And when he came back, he was really, really mad. He said I should’ve listened. That I almost killed those people. That I’m not fit to be Spider-Man.”

Miles knows what Peter’s going to say next, but it still sucks to hear it all the same.

“He made me give the suit back. I begged him to let me have another chance—but. No dice. He said, ‘if you’re nothing without the suit, then you shouldn’t have it.’ And then he gave me these Hello Kitty pajama pants and a tourist tee and sent me on my merry way,” he finishes bitterly, looking off to the side.

The subway rolls to a stop, but neither of them move to get off as people begin boarding. Miles wonders briefly in the back of his mind how Peter knows which station to get off at.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, vehemently, startling Peter. “He was wrong, okay? He was _wrong._ If Tony Stark wants to take his suit back, then—then fine. That’s just fine. But he was wrong about you. You’re _not_ just what the suit made you, because you’re _more_ . _You_ made Spider-Man, way before some fancy suit came along, that was all _you._ You—you invented a _formula_ so you could shoot _artificial spider webs._ You stopped a _bus_ with your _bare hands._ You aren’t nothing without the suit! The _suit_ is nothing without _you!_ The only thing special about that suit is the person inside it, and Peter, that's you _._ ” Miles looks at Peter fiercely, unwavering. “I don’t care what Tony Stark says, or who he thinks he can boss around and be in charge of. He didn't make you, he can't end you. You _are_ Spider-Man, and there is _nothing_ he can do about that.”

Peter looks at Miles in awe and blinks hard, his eyes growing moist.

“Miles,” he starts, slightly strangled. He swallows thickly. “Miles, I’ll teach you to be Spider-Man, if that’s what you want, I’ll do it. I don’t know you that well, but—but I trust you. And maybe that sounds crazy, but my Spidey Sense has never been wrong, and it brought us together. I think I was supposed to meet you. And I think you’re supposed to be Spider-Man.”

“I won’t replace you,” Miles refutes.

“No,” Peter agrees. “You’re right. I’m _not_ ready to stop being Spider-Man. I’m gonna—you’re right. Mr. Stark _can’t_ stop me. And I don’t—” he clears his throat wetly. “I don’t need his help. But, I—I was thinking maybe we can be….partners.”

“Partners,” Miles tries, liking the sound of it.

“Yeah, like a team.”

 _'Like the Avengers'_ goes unsaid.

“Are you sure there’s enough room for the two of us in this town, pardner?” Miles whispers in a goofy southern drawl.

Peter laughs. “New York is massive. We can share. I only really look after Queens, anyway.”

“Cool. I call Brooklyn,” Miles grins.

Peter laughs. “Keep it. Queens is better.”

“Uh, wrong.”

“So right.”

“So, so wrong.”

“Oh, you poor thing.”

“Bitch—!”

The subway whistles, cutting off the rest of their argument, making them collapse into giggles.

They jump off as the subway pulls out of the station, racing each other up the steps and into the bright afternoon sun.

 

**_Queens_ **

 

 _“So,”_   Peter starts, throwing an arm around Miles' shoulders. “We need to make you a suit. Maybe _matching!_ How do you feel about red and blue?”

“Man, cut that out,” Miles snorts, shoving Peter off playfully. “I am not gon’ _match our outfits_. That’s fruity.”

“Did you really just say _fruity_ —?” Peter sniggers.

“I sure did, and I’m gon’ say it again if you keep up that _giggling_.”

“I’m not giggling!” Peter whines, shoving Miles with his shoulder.

“Okay Toucan Sam, whatever you say.”

“I hate you.”

“That’s your opinion and you are entitled to it, whether or not it’s valid is no concern of mine.”

“Oh my god,” Peter laughs, giving up. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m just warming up,” Miles says, bumping Peter into a newspaper stand with his shoulder as they walk past, making Peter yelp.

The sun is bright but not too hot, the city is loud and familiar and it’s just the right weather for going out and trying new things.

It’s a good place to start.

 

 


	2. Time To Swing!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How appetizing. But, consider this: it’s still illegal.”  
> “Yeah, but, no one’s around to tell the cops.”  
> “Aren’t you like….a vigilante?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: More bad language in some spots

 

_Queens_

****

“So, where are we going?” Miles asks, peering around.

He’d been walking with Peter for a few blocks now, but the boy seems to be walking on autopilot, barely even glancing at his surroundings as he leads them along. He’s clearly at home in this part of Queens.

On the other hand, Miles doesn’t get out of Brooklyn much, so this whole neighborhood is all a bit of unfamiliar territory.

“My apartment. Hey by the way, when we get there—”

“Yeah?”

“My aunt might be a little, y’know—”

“....Yeah?”

“— _mad at me._ So just—would you mind, like, waiting outside? While I talk to her?”

“Sure,” Miles shrugs. “But you know, you don’t have to be embarrassed. I mean, if you met my dad, well. I doubt _anybody_ can be as embarrassing as _my dad—_ ”

“No, no, I’m not like, _ashamed_ of her, it’s just—she can be a little…. _much,_ when she’s stressed, and I don’t want to pile too much on her at once, you know?” Peter bites his lip in a gesture of nerves.

“It’s cool, man. Take all the time you need.”

It turns out that Peter’s assessment of his aunt’s predictable bad mood is right on the nose.

May is _so_ not happy with Peter, when he gets back to the apartment.

“I called _five_ police stations. _Five_. I called five of your friends—”

“—I’m fine—”

“—I called Ned’s mother—”

“—May, I’m _f_ —”

“—for the past, like—”

“— _May,_ I’m fine, honestly just relax, I’m _fine.”_

May turns and shoots her nephew a scathing look.

 _“Cut the bullshit,”_ she hisses. “I know you left detention. I know you left the hotel room in Washington. I know you sneak out of this house every night. _That’s not fine.”_

Peter looks away.

May looks up in frustration.

“Peter, you _have_ to tell me what’s going on.” She looks on the verge of tears. “Just, _lay it out._ It’s just me and you.”

She looks at him expectantly, but Peter doesn’t know what to _say._

Just lay it out. Lay out _what?_ That Peter’s not good enough? That he can’t even do the _one thing_ Mr. Stark had asked him not to do, and now he’s lost—not only the suit, but also his mentor? His only source of—of _guidance?_

Does he say that there’s another kid like him, stuck in the same mess—a kid he’s gonna train to be Spider-Man? A kid who’s life he’ll be endangering by doing so?

What if Mr. Stark finds out?

What if Miles gets hurt??

It would be all Peter’s fault. It would be on _him_. Which is exactly how he got put in this situation in the first place.

Peter needs help, _advice—_ Mr. Stark would know what to do. He’d given Peter advice. Peter just hadn’t been very good at _taking_ it. And now, thanks to Peter being a monumental screw-up, he no longer has that privilege.

Peter blinks back tears.

“I lost the Stark internship,” he mumbles at last.

 _“What?”_ May looks momentarily sideswept.

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“I just thought I could work, really hard—and he could—he would—y’know.” Peter sits down heavily, hanging his head. “But I screwed it up.”

“Ohh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” May sighs, coming over to hug him, rubbing his back. “It’s okay.”

Peter leans his head against her stomach. “I’m sorry I made you worry.”

“You know I’m not trying to ruin your life?” She asks softly.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Just….I used to sneak out, too.”

“Yeah.”

May pulls back, nose crinkling. She sniffs his hair and winces.

“And take a shower, you smell....”

Peter nods solemnly.

“....You smell like garbage.”

“I know.”

He stands up and leaves, makes his way into his room, letting the door click shut behind him.

Then, he rushes to the window and yanks the latches out and throws it open.

Miles scrambles through clumsily, letting out an exaggerated sigh of relief as he flops down on Peter’s top bunk. _“Damn,_ that was scary! You do that every night!?” He whisper screams.

“Just about.”

Peter had coached Miles into climbing up the wall to wait silently on the fire escape before going inside to talk to his aunt, but the time up there alone while he waited for Peter to let him in had certainly taken its toll.

“I hate this job,” he whines.

“Yeah,” Peter agrees solemnly. Usually he _loves_ it, but….it _does_ kinda suck, right now.

“So, when do we start?” Miles asks brightly, sitting up and hopping down.

“Well….” Peter digs around in his desk for an old science notebook, where he’d drawn his blueprints for the web shooters. “We need to make you some of _these,”_ he holds up the illustration, wrinkled and worn from attention over the months he’d spent developing it. “They aren’t as good as the ones Mr. Stark built, but they work fine.”

“Where are you going to get the stuff for them?” Miles frowns. These designs look pretty complex, and he’s on a budget….

Peter looks up slowly, a wicked gleam in his eye.

“Peter. Why are you looking at me like that?” Miles tries and fails to prevent the anxiety from creeping into his voice.

Peter lets a slow, evil grin stretch across his cheeks. “You ever been dumpster diving?”

Miles gulps.

****

_Manhattan_

****

“The Bronx has fourteen waste transfer stations,” Peter explains as they walk across the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge. “Queens has eighteen, but they’re more scattered.”

“How many does Brooklyn have?”

“Twenty. And Staten Island has six. But guess how many Manhattan has?”

“—Uhh—”

“None. _Zero!_ Can you believe that!?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, same. But _still._ ”

“So, is garbage, like, your passion?” Miles teases.

Peter shoves him. “I like to tinker, okay?”

“Yeah? Well keep at it, cuz I think you’ve still got a coupla screws loose.”

Peter shoves him again, nearly sending him toppling into the East River—but he’s laughing, too.

“Okay okay, but _really._ Why are we going to these landfills—”

“Waste transfer stations.”

“— _whatever._ Why are we going to these _‘waste transfer stations’_ when we could just dig through people’s trash?”

“One, because people call the police when you do that—it’s illegal—and _two,_ that’s like a _huge_ waste of time. This way, we’ll be able to look through a _ton_ of trash instead of a little here and a little there.”

“How appetizing. But, consider this: it’s still illegal.”

“Yeah, _but,_ no one’s around to tell the cops.”

“Aren’t you like….a vigilante?”

“Yeah, for stuff that _matters._ I don’t go running to the police every time I see a prostitute, and _that’s_ illegal.”

“Good to know,” Miles glares, unimpressed. “Though….I suppose it _is_ public garbage,” he allows at last.

 _“And_ it’s going to be melted down anyway. At least _this_ way, we’re re-purposing it in a way that will allow us to potentially save lives.”

“And jump off _buildings.”_

 _“And_ jump off buildings.”

“Alright, fine. Let’s look at trash.”

****

_The Bronx_

****

“Oh! Oh! I found one!” Miles cries triumphantly, yanking a microwave from under a pile of junk. “There’s a little one there, see?”

Peter inspects the washer he’s pointing to.

It _is_ small but….“Still too big,” Peter sighs. "This thing has got to be _small._ We’re talking about the circumference of a number two Dixon Ticonderoga Scantron-worthy school-approved pencil eraser here, Miles."

“Okay, first of all? Don’t ever say that to me again. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. And—and _secondly_ — _this_ **_is_ ** _small!"_ Miles adds, outraged.

“Think like, _half_ that size. I gave you a visual.”

“I’m not visualizing that. That triggers me. I was triggered. Do you _want_ to trigger my elementary school standardized-testing invoked PTSD?”

“Pencil eraser, Miles. The size of a pencil eraser."

“Peter, I think you’re asking for the impossible here, I really do.”

“There’s gotta be an M2 around here somewhere. Keep looking.”

Miles throws down the microwave with an exasperated scream. “You’re _lucky_ I’m not wearing my good shoes,” he accuses.

“Here’s one,” Peter announces, ignoring him.

 _“What!?_ What do you mean—you _found_ it!?! I’ve been looking for _thirty minutes!”_ Miles whines.

“We’re good to go.” Peter starts gathering up the bits of scrap metal and electronics they’d piled together over the last forty–five minutes. (‘They’ referring to Peter. Miles hadn’t gathered shit.)

“How did you find all this stuff so quickly?”

“Practice.”

“Well I’m _not_ practicing _this._ Next time _you_ want to dig around in a trash heap, be my guest—but you can count _me_ out.”

“Yeah yeah yeah, hey listen, wanna go shopping?”

“Uh, what is that, another joke? This isn’t an episode of _Mean Girls_.”

Peter stops, giving Miles a disgusted look. _“Mean Girls_ is a fucking movie, you dipshit.”

“Oh, whatever,” Miles scoffs. “My point remains.”

“No,” Peter rolls his eyes. “And we have to get you a Spider-Man suit.”

“Oh, then in that case—I am _so_ in.”

****

_Queens_

****

Peter has gone a little crazy with the whole 'superhero outfit’ thing.

“Peter, come on, man. They see me in _that_ and they’ll send me to jail whether I’m doing good or _not._ ”

Peter huffs, tossing the garishly bright red hoodie down.

“It’s the Spider-Man _look,_ Miles. Red hoodie, blue sweatpants! Come on!”

“Well _this_ Spider-Man is not having it. Can you imagine me in this!? I’d look stupid!”

“Are you calling me stupid-lookin’?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Hey!”

“Oh, _here_ we go.” Miles plucks up a black Under Armor turtleneck. “Sleek. Functional. _Not blue._ I’m thinkin’ it’s a look. You feelin’ a look?”

“ _Black?_ What part of _black_ says ‘friendly neighborhood.’ To me, it’s saying _goth_.”

Miles shoots him an unimpressed look. “If you don’t like it, stay out of Brooklyn. Red? I can stomach red _in small amounts_. Blue? Nah. Black it is.”

“Okay but you definitely are _not_ getting a _turtleneck.”_

“It’s an _athletic turtleneck.”_

_“And?”_

“Alright, smarty-pants. What am I _supposed_ to wear, a sweater?”

“We need to get you a onesie.”

“A _onesie?_ What do I look like to you, some kind of _baby?”_

“Well, you sure _sound_ like one.”

“Aight lissen, you aboutta _catch these hands—”_

“Let’s look in the pajamas section. There’s gotta be a onesie over there somewhere,” Peter strolls out of the athletic department, completely ignoring Miles’ threat.

“What part of _‘I’m not wearin’ that’_ are you not understanding?”

Peter rolls his eyes.

“Look. If you want to be Spider-Man, you gotta accept the brand. People might get nervous if another Spider-Man shows up looking totally different. They might try to pit us against each other as enemies or something. If we present ourselves as a _team_ from day one, people will trust us more and not think that I’m building up a rogue gallery and making myself a threat or something.”

“What’s a rogue gallery?”

“Focus, Miles. That’s not important.”

“Alright fine. I’ll wear your _dumb onesie,_ but I’m _still_ not matching colors.”

“Fine. It will be better if people recognize us as different, anyway.”

“ _And_ I get to decorate it.”

“....decorate?”

“Hey look, I found one.” Miles holds up a plain black, non-embellished onesie without feet or hands or a hood.

“That’s black,” Peter protests.

“I’ll paint it.”

_“Paint?”_

“Uh-huh. Do I need anything else, or was it just this?”

“Goggles. Hoodie.”

“Right.” 

The Spider-Man suit they end up with looks like this: black onesie, black hoodie (that they cut the sleeves off of), black gloves, and a black mask with cut out white goggle lenses sewn into the eye holes. Miles spray-paints an _awesome_ red spider logo onto the hoodie with diagonal stripes going down his shoulders in two miniature vees to frame the spider, red outlines around the goggle holes in the mask and on the fingertips and palms of the gloves. He pairs it with his Nike basketball shoes.

It makes Peter a _little_ nervous, leaving a feature that could so easily be traced back to Miles, thus revealing his secret identity, but Miles assures Peter that he knows a _ton_ of people with these same shoes, so he doesn’t have to worry.

It looks _so cool_ when he’s done.

“Okay, well _now_ I’m just jealous.”

“You should be,” Miles smirks. “I told you your suit was lame.”

“That’s no fair,” Peter whines. “Just because I’m a bad artist—”

“Oh, _now_ you’re a bad artist. Just a _minute ago_ you were the _suit expert_ —”

“Man, _whatever,”_ Peter pouts, crossing his arms petulantly. “My suit is still cool.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

“Shut up,” Peter shoves his shoulder. “It _is.”_

Miles laughs. “Where is it, anyway?”

“Under some school lockers. I’ll get it tomorrow. _And_ make you some web shooters, so we can get started with your training.”

“Sweet! We should meet after school.”

 _“Duh._ Dude—I’m _so excited._ ”

“I know!”

_“Two Spider-Men!”_

“It’s _crazy_.”

“People are gonna _flip!_ ”

“Hell _yeah_ they will.”

“How are you _not freaking out!?!”_

“Oh, trust me, I _definitely will_ later. This is all still sinking in, it feels like an out-of body experience.”

“This is so insane. I’m gonna start on those web shooters _tonight._ ”

“Slow down, man—let me get the hang of crawling up walls, first,” Miles chuckles nervously.

“Yeah, yeah, of course—but the best way to learn is on the go.”

“You’re making me nervous here, Peter,”

“Sorry. I promise I’ll be there to help the whole time.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Miles grins. “Hey, I gotta get back to school—I kinda dipped on them and if they call my parents—” Miles makes a cutting motion across his throat.

“Oh yeah _same_. My aunt will _kill_ me if I’m not back in time for dinner.”

“So, I’ll meet you tomorrow in Queens?”

“Nah. I’ll meet you in Brooklyn. Here, give me your number and we’ll figure out where to meet.” Peter tugs an old Android out of his back pocket, typing in his passcode.

Miles pulls out his own phone, letting it scan his thumb and pulling up his contacts.

They trade.

“Miles Morales,” Peter mumbles, reading the name at the top of the screen once he gets his phone back. “Cool.”

“You as well, _Peter Parker._ So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah man, see you tomorrow!”

“Aight den, deuces,” Miles peaces out and then jogs off towards the train, spider suit stashed in a non-incriminating shopping bag.

****

_Brooklyn_

****

Miles won’t lie. He tries the suit on the _moment_ he gets back to school.

It’s _awesome,_ okay?

He turns this way and that, strikes a few fighting poses into the dorm mirror.

And then his roommate walks in and he has to dive into the closet to hide.

But _still._ It’s so cool.

He stashes the suit at the very bottom of his backpack, under sketchbooks and notebooks and binders—and then promptly spends the next four hours designing logos in his notebook for future suit upgrades.

He scribbles in ideas like ‘add in x-ray vision’ to the _future_ future ones—for when he has a ton of money or whatever— well into the night, until his roommate yells at him to turn his light off and go to sleep.

****

_Queens_

****

Peter works on the web shooters until the sun starts to come up and finishes just as the early morning rush-hour traffic starts crawling up and down his street.

He doesn’t have time to test them out, though, because it’s already _six (already!)_ and he needs to leave in the next twenty minutes if he wants to catch his train.

 _Then_ he remembers that he hasn’t done his Chem homework yet, and has a small panic attack as he scribbles in the answers while he waits on the toaster and coffee machine. On a morning like _this,_ he’ll need the caffeine.

May is already gone for work, so she isn’t around to scold him for not doing it the night before.

He scoops up the web shooters and shoves them— as well as his homework—into his new backpack and runs off to school.

****

_Manhattan_

****

By the time he gets to school, he’s antsy with anticipation. He has to make extra web fluid today, and find a way to get his suit from beneath the lockers, and set up a meeting point with Miles.

 _‘It’s Peter,’_ Peter texts. _‘What’s your school called?’_

“Hey Peter!” Ned’s voice startles him, making him mess up his locker combination.

“Hey Ned!” He grins, resetting to zero and starting again.

“Wow, you’re looking a lot better than I thought you would.”

“Why’s that?”

“Uh, The Ferry? Duh. I saw you on the news.”

 _“Shhh!”_ Peter hisses, glancing around.

“Sorry. That was super badass though, the way you—”

_“Shhhh!!!”_

“Okay, _okay_ , fine. Do you want to come to my house after school?”

“Sorry—but I can’t, Ned.”

“What? Why? You're not grounded, are you? Your aunt called my mom.”

Peter pauses for a beat.

What does he tell his best friend?

That there’s a new Spider-Man? He _already_ has a hard enough time getting Ned to keep _one_ Spider-Man a secret, let alone _two_. But….Miles will become famous, too. And when he does, and Ned finds out that he kept _another_ secret, his feelings might get seriously hurt. And Peter’s already done enough damage to their friendship as it is.

“....Alright, I’ll tell you. But it’s a _secret,_ Ned, okay? Not something you can tell people, not something you can talk about, you can’t even _mention_ it, okay?” Peter whispers seriously.

Ned’s eyes go wide with excitement when Peter says ‘secret’.

“What is it?” He whispers, looking positively _gleeful._

Peter glances around cautiously.

“Not here. I’ll tell you at lunch.”

Ned nods enthusiastically, his bangs flopping on his forehead.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Is this, like, bigger than the _last_ secret you kept from me? Because I will literally _kill_ you if it turns out you’re like—”

“Shhh!” Peter hisses, glancing around. “Stop _talking_ about that,” he whispers.

“Sorry,” Ned mutters. “This is just so exciting! Are you being called on a secret mission? Can I come? Are you—”

 _“Ned!”_ Peter cries, exasperated. “I’ll tell you at _lunch!”_

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!”

“Good. Don’t ask anymore questions, okay?”

“Okay. Secret. Got it.”

“....”

“....Did you lay eggs?”

_“Ned!”_

“Okay! _Okay,_ I’m _sorry._ ”

Ned doesn’t ask anymore questions, but he wants to _so badly_ that Peter can _feel them_ like a swarm of bees—trying to slip out whenever he’s in Ned’s general vicinity. It drives him _crazy._

They talk about other things, to distract from the obvious.

They talk about Legos, they talk about robots, they talk about video games, they talk about the Rogue Avengers and where they’re hiding. They do their Spanish homework during Physics,  they do their Physics homework during Calc, and before they know it the bell is ringing and Ned is hovering next to his desk, impatiently watching him put away his books.

They don’t say a _word_ on the way to the cafeteria, Peter is too nervous and Ned is too excited.

“Spill,” Ned says, the _second_ Peter's butt hits the seat.

“Okay,” Peter leans forward, dropping his voice. “Okay. You know about what happened with the Ferry yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Mr. Stark fired me.”

“He _what!?_ Why would he fire you!?! You were amazing!” Ned shouts.

“Shhh!” Peter hisses, glancing around.

The only one near enough to hear them is MJ, and she’s got on off-brand Beats by Dre and hadn’t looked up from her drawing pad.

“Sorry,” Ned whispers. “But _seriously._ What was he _thinking?_ You saved a ton of people!”

“Well, according to him, it’s my fault they were even in danger in the first place.”

“How.”

“It doesn’t matter. The _point_ is, I got fired, but then—well—something happened.”

“What?”

“There was this kid, he was _looking_ for me because—” Peter stops, leaning forward and whispering so quiet Ned has to strain his ears to hear. “—he got bitten too.”

Ned’s eyes pop and his jaw drops as he processes this.

“Bitten, like, _bitten_ bitten? Like, by a radioactive spider?”

Peter nods. _“Yeah.”_

"So he has _powers??"_

_"Yeah."_

"Like, _your same powers?!?"_

_"Yeah!"_

Ned sits back, processing. He looks  _flabbergasted._ He looks like Christmas just came early.

 _“OhmyGod what’re you gonna do?!??”_ Ned squeals.

“I’m gonna train him. We’re meeting after school.”

“Can I meet him?”

“No.”

Ned pouts.

“Well….maybe. But not today.”

“Fair. How old is he?”

“Our age, I think. He doesn’t go here.”

“Peter, do you know what this _means?”_ Ned grins, trembling with barely-contained excitement.

 _“Yes,”_ Peter grins.

_“Two Spider-Men!”_

“I _know!”_

_“This is the best day of my—”_

“What’re you ladies giggling about over there?”

Peter and Ned jump, exchanging panicked looks before turning to face MJ, who is squinting at them suspiciously.

“Uhh….nothing?” Peter tries.

MJ shoots them an unimpressed look.

“You’re a _terrible_ liar,” she rolls her eyes. “But you’re lucky I don’t care.”

With that, she turns back to her sketchbook and begins drawing something in.

“Your faces will make a great addition to my collection, though,” she hums mostly to herself, brow furrowing as she begins a rough outline of what is presumably them in crisis.

“Whatever,” Ned mutters, turning back to face Peter. “Did you do the Chem homework?”

“Yeah,” Peter sighs, reaching under his chair and pulling out his binder.

Peter's phone buzzes when Miles texts him back before lunch ends.

 _‘Brooklyn Visions’_ it says. _‘Meet me on the roof after school.'_

Peter responds with a smiling face emoticon and enters the school’s name into Google Maps. It probably won’t be more than a fifteen minute swing, but it isn’t a mode of transportation according to Google so he has to estimate all his own travel times.

During fourth block, Peter’s teacher gets a call from the principal’s office and asks him to send Peter down after school.

Ned looks so anxious for Peter that it makes Peter’s own nerves dial to an eleven, maybe even a twelve.

His palms sweat for the rest of class and he has to keep wiping them on his jeans.

He makes a _lot_ of web fluid, though, enough that it probably won’t all fit in his and Miles’ web shooters—but it’s better safe than sorry.

Making the web fluid helps him keep his mind off the inevitable meeting with the principal, which he is pretty sure is about him skipping detention yesterday, thus making it necessary for him to simulate a million possible scenarios for him to practice a speech that will keep him from being expelled. It keeps his mind occupied, at least, but it’s _really_ not good for his stress levels.

He has a feeling his cardiogram is gonna match _Happy’s_ by the time the bell rings.

The thought of Happy leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, though, so he goes back to perfecting his apology speech.

As it turns out, the apology speech does _wonders_ for him.

“Peter you’re a good kid, and a smart kid, so just try to keep your head straight, okay?” Principal Morita sighs.

And just like that, Peter is _free._

“Okay.”

“Alright. Get out of here.”

Peter swings his backpack back onto his shoulder and tries not to let the cans of web fluid make too much noise.

“Are you expelled?” Ned asks the moment Peter gets the door open. “Do you have to go to that high school on 46th where the principal has a crossbow?”

“Pretty sure that’s an urban myth, and no, I’m not expelled,” Peter assures.

Ned shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re _so_ lucky.”

They walk back to his locker, where Ned keeps watch for people coming around the corner while Peter lifts the lockers to dig out his suit from underneath.

“So, where to?” Ned probes.

“Brooklyn. Catch you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Ned grins, as they run through their secret best friends handshake.

Peter salutes one last time before jogging out of the school and disappearing into the traffic.

He changes in the alleyway quickly, webbing his backpack to the side of a dumpster and slinging himself up onto the side of the building.

 **“Brooklyn, here I come!”** He crows, swinging over crowds of New Yorkers, taxis, and tourists. ** _“Yaaaaa_** **—** ** _hooooo!!!!!”_ **

****

_Brooklyn_

****

Peter is already waiting for Miles on the roof by the time he’s changed into his suit and coaxed himself up the side of the building.

“What’s up, Spider-Man?” Peter calls. “You ready to swing?”

“No I am _not,_ Spider-Man!” Miles returns, exasperated. “I told you, I wanna start _slow._ ”

“Yeah yeah,” Peter fixes the web shooters to Miles’ wrists. “This _is_ slow. Your life isn’t even in danger yet.”

“What do you mean _yet?”_ Miles shrieks.

“Exactly what I say. Okay you’re all set and ready so we’re gonna jump on three, alright?”

“What? I am _not_ ready—!”

“One, Two,” Peter aims Miles web shooter to the tallest nearby building, presses the eject button, and shoves him. “Three!”

Miles’ Pterodactyl scream attracts the attention of the entire street below them as he swings right over their heads, gripping the web with both hands and clinging on for dear life.

“Okay, switch to the other one!” Peter calls, swinging up next to him. “Now!”

“ARGGHHHHHHH—”

“Let go, Miles!”

“—HHHHHHHHH—”

“Miles!”

“—HHHHHH—”

Peter grabs Miles with one arm, wrapping it firmly around his waist and tucking him securely against his side and shoots the next line with the other.

“ARE YOU CRAZY!?!” Miles screams.

“You’re gonna shoot the next one! Go!” Peter yells.

Miles shoots wildly, catching the web onto the side of another skyscraper. Peter cuts his line and they swing on Miles’ line. Peter throws the next one, they’re almost at the end of the street now.

“Again! Shoot!”

Miles shoots, aiming more carefully this time. The web catches on the last building and they swing to the end of the street.

Peter kicks his legs out and lets the line swing them around the street corner, on to the next row of towering buildings before cutting it and throwing the next one.

When Miles throws the next line, Peter throws one too and lets go of him at the same time.

“You’ve got it, Spider-Man!” Peter hoots. “Do it with me!”

Miles shrieks echo around the whole street as he throws the next line and swings in synch with Peter.

 _“Oh my God!”_ Miles screams, voice filled with sheer terror. _“I hate you! I fucking hate you!”_

“Look at you!” Peter laughs. “You’re a natural!”

“And _you’re_ dead meat!” Miles threatens, swinging clumsily.

“Not if you can’t catch me!” Peter taunts.

The two Spider-Men race all the way across Brooklyn, the streets echoing with shrieks and laughter in their wake.

****

_Brooklyn_

****

“So,” Miles asks thoughtfully, chewing his hot dog. He’s sitting at the edge of a building with his mask over his nose, dangling legs swinging in a carefree manner. “When do I get to fight bad guys?”

“Well,” Peter hesitates. “I don’t really fight that many—”

 _“HELP!”_ A man screams from several blocks away.

“Aaaand you jinxed us,” Peter groans, getting up and pulling his mask down.

“What about our hot dogs!?”

“We’ll come back later! Come on!”

Miles scrambles to get his own mask down, hoping he hasn’t just smeared mustard all up inside it.

“Please, somebody help!” A man in a suit yells, backing up further into the alley as three thugs circle him.

“Call for help one more _fucking time,_ I fucking dare you—”

“Hey! That’s not nice!” Peter crows, landing squarely between the thugs and the suit man.

“Oh thank God,” the man cries.

“Yo, who da fuck is ‘is ass’ole!?” One of the muggers snarls.

“Oh, him?” Miles land behind him, making him jump. “Come on, don’t you know Spider-Man?”

“Who da fuck’re you!?” A second thug yelps.

Miles shrugs. “Spider-Man.”

They hold up their hands at the same time and web up the three guys before they can say another word.

“Nice!” Peter whoops, leaping over to Miles’ side to high five him. “That was awesome, dude!”

“Oh my God, you guys saved my life!” The suit guy blabbers, and now up close, they realize he’s actually a teenager, and not a businessman.

The suit had, apparently, thrown them both for a loop.

“Can I get a picture with you guys?” The guy gushes, already whipping out the latest model of the iPhone, which Peter is pretty sure hasn’t even been released yet. A rich kid, then.

“Uh, sure,” Peter shrugs.

The kid wedges himself between the two of them and they both throw up the Spider-Man hand like a gang sign as he takes their picture with his Snapchat camera.

“Hey, how come there’s two of you guys now?” He asks, saving the picture and putting his phone away.

They both shrug.

“There was more work to be done,” Miles answers sagely. “And so another Spider-Man was called.”

“Huh,” the guy frowns, considering. “Cool. See ya!”

“See ya!” They chorus, watching the rich kid walk away.

"You're such a nerd," Peter snickers the moment he's out of earshot.

“So,” Miles huffs, looking at the writhing criminals and ignoring him. “What now?”

Peter pulls out his phone.

“We call the po-lice.”

“Wait, seriously?” Miles scoffs.

“Uh, _yeah,”_ Peter huffs, rolling his eyes. _“Doh.”_

“Whatever, _smartass.”_

_"911, what's your emergency?"_

“Hi! There’s some muggers here on 48th. Hope you get here soon!” Peter pipes before hanging up.

“Seriously?”

“Yup. Let’s go!”

"Wait up!" Miles whines, jumping up after him.

"Last one there has to give up his hot dog!"

 _"Touch my hot dog and die instantly!"_ Miles roars.

"Catch me then!"

The wind whips around the two heroes as they banter back and forth, bringing a rare smile to the otherwise grumpy New Yorkers who catch sight of them and leaving a trail of optimism in their wake.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 4th everyone!!! God Bless America and God Bless Barbecue Sauce and Explosions. I freaking love the Fourth of July.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll post weekly, so please hit Subscribe if you want to see more, Kudos if you liked it, Bookmark if you loved it, and ALWAYS, ALWAYS drop me a comment and tell me what you think because I LOVE feedback!!! Thanks a lot, loves, until next update!
> 
> <3, Squid


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